Halloween at the Holmes House
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly and Sherlock throw a Halloween get together. Established Sherlolly.


It was late in the afternoon on Halloween, and the mini-goblins were due to just begin making their rounds at any time. The group of friends had gathered at 221b Baker Street to celebrate the day, and scare the bejesus out of any small victims, er, trick or treaters, who may come their way. Preparations were almost done, but some small tasks had to be completed.

The front door of the house opened unto a corridor, dimly lit and festooned with fake cobwebs, which then emptied into the small yard at the rear of the building. A witch's cauldron, bubbling over due to the use of dry ice, spread a spooky fog over the area. A fire burned in the firepit, and fairy lights dimly lit the small tree and hedges. Any child who ventured into the space would be greeted with a scare and a treat, plus a warm cup of hot chocolate to help ward of the autumn chill. This had all been done in the name of the resident children, Jack and Maggie Holmes, but everybody knew the adults were enjoying it every bit as much.

Sherlock Holmes had dressed as a pirate. He always dressed as a pirate. There was no changing his mind, no arguing. At Jack's first Halloween, his father had simply been your average pirate. The following year, in keeping with the monster theme, his wife, Molly, had urged him to be a werewolf. So naturally, he was a pirate werewolf.

"There is no such thing as a pirate werewolf, you git!", Molly had said, exasperated.

"There is no such thing as a werewolf, period, so, if I am to stretch the realms of possibility to include lycanthropes, why should you deny the possibility of one of that ilk turning to a life of piracy/"

Molly had shaken her head, and given up.

The following year, Sherlock became a pirate mummy. "Sherlock! Mummies are Egyptian, not Anglo-european swashbucklers! Get with the program!"

"Molly, love, remember my point from last year about stretching the realms of possibility? Good, then I don't have to repeat myself!" Then the detective went off to find a cutlass. Molly smirked at her husband, but she did have to admit that she rather enjoyed unwrapping him later that night.

This year, Sherlock was a zombie pirate, and his wife had given up objecting.

Molly was dressed as a vampire, and she was surely enough to frighten small children. Her skin was deathly pale, her lips dripped blood, and her fangs sometimes made it difficult to speak without a lisp. As a lisping vampire took the edge of the fright factor, she had decided to only make low growling sounds, and chew at her blood red lips with her rather prominent incisors. Evidently the sight of a deathly pale woman in a low cut black dress gnawing seductively on her lower lip was all a zombie pirate needed to make his day, and no child should be subjected to the sight of a zombie and a vampire snogging away by a witch's cauldron. At least this was what their older child, four-year old Jack, believed, as he proceeded to pull a rubber arrow from the bandolier across the chest of his long duster style coat, load up his crossbow, and shoot his distracted father in the bum. Nineteen month old Maggie howled her approval.

"Bloody hell, Molly, what is wrong with your son? "

"He's a zombie hunter, Sherlock. And he's taking it very seriously."

"There is something very Oedipal going on here, woman. His father dresses as a zombie, so he's a zombie hunter. Everytime I look at you, a get shot in the arse! And why is Maggie so bloody happy about it?"

Molly was laughing as she scooped up her young daughter. The toddler was dressed as a infant vampire, and was currently sucking tomato juice out of a baby bottle. "Perhaps she's just happy that he's a zombie hunter, and not a vampire slayer. But I think it has more to do with that little dance you do every time one of Jack's projectiles connect." The little girl was also clutching a stuffed yellow tabby cat. Molly's beloved old cat Toby had finally passed away a few months before, and little Maggie was comforted by the toy. Molly herself was comforted by Toby's ashes, which she kept in a small carved box on the bureau in her and Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock himself was comforted by neither of these things, and, to everybody's surprise, had been campaigning for a new pet. Molly, however, was not really open to her husband's suggestions of a pet iguana or perhaps a snake. She was half afraid that he would bring home the tarantula he had threatened her with. She preferred cats, thank you, and would hold out until he came around to her way of thinking.

Mycroft Holmes and his wife, Anthea, were also in attendance, Anthea, once again heavily pregnant. She was, of course, dressed as a mummy, figuring this was a clever play on words. Mycroft was, as per his usual habit, dressed as a low level minion of the British government. Their two children, four year old Si, and two-year old Violetta, were costumed as the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood, respectively. The wolf may have been the more frightening in the fairy tale, but little Vi, smack in the middle of her terrible twos, was certainly giving him a run for his money.

Mary Watson had arrived dressed as the bride of Frankenstein, trying to combine an elegant look with a green complexion and neck bolts, and almost carrying it off. She kept in character for a short while, hissing a greeting at the group.

"Where's the Monster?" Molly asked, naturally assuming that John would be following closely behind, squared off head, stitches and all.

"Damned if I know," Mary informed them, "And, evidently, neither does the costume shop! I had to resort to bringing my paramour, my bit of fluff, my man on the side, my…

"Sod it, Mary, leave off. I really wanted to be the Monster. He's always been my favorite." John said in a disgruntled voice, making his appearance as a grim reaper. "It was this, or a zombie! Evidently, zombies are big this year."

"Good choice, then, John, unless you want to spend the evening dodging arrows. My miscreant son is taking his zombie hunting gear quite seriously!" Sherlock yelped as he took another arrow to the arse.

"Not to worry, love. He'll be out of ammo soon enough." Molly tried to comfort her husband by gently rubbing his bum, which evidently further aroused Jack's ire, and he subsequently let fly another arrow.

"Why you little…!" Sherlock's hand joined his wife's in rubbing his butt.

"Easy, mate, you're beginning to sound a bit like Homer Simpson!" John snickered.

Mrs. Hudson came through the rear door of the house, bearing a large tray full of freshly baked bisquits shaped and colored like witch's fingers, and pile of candy treats. She was dressed in a traditional nanny's uniform, but was covered almost completely in blood dripping from a fake slice across her throat.

"I get the impression that this is what it would look like had we hired a nanny for Jack!" Sherlock sneered, and Molly kicked him, albeit gently.

"She does look absolutely terrifying, doesn't she?"

"I don't know, Molly. It could have been much worse. She could have dragged out one of her old exotic dancer outfits! The children would have been scarred for life!"

Then, into this varied array of monstrous entities, a complete anomaly appeared. Young Claire Watson, at seven years the eldest of the children in this circle of friends, and undisputed queen of all she surveyed, entered as if on a beam of light. She was dressed as a fairy princess, and she played the princess part to the hilt! The little blond girl surveyed her surrounding, drinking in the adulation of the younger kids, especially Si and Jack, and smiled radiantly as she waved her fairy wand.

"I thought we were going with a scary theme, John?" Sherlock asked his friend.

"You want to see something scary, mate. Just try telling that little hellion that she can't be a fairy princess. An arrow in the arse would be the least of your worries!"

The last adult to arrive was DI Greg Lestrade. He had no children present, no real reason to be here, except to share an evening with friends. Greg was wearing a flowing dark coat and scarf.

"No costume then, mate," John Watson greeted him. "You were supposed to be something scary, after all."

The policeman dramatically pulled a deerstalker hat from his pocket, placed it on his head, and said, "I came as the most frightening thing I could think of, chum! What do ya think? Can you deduce who I am?"

Sherlock spoke first, "No idea, Graham. Anyone we know?"

"The world's only insulting detective?" Mary put in.

"Resulting invective?"

"Assaulting defective?"

"Somersaulting ejective?" Molly finally said, and everybody turned to her. "I don't know what the hell it is, but I wanted to get in on this!"

"If you've all finished showing off your rather limited vocabulary, perhaps we should finish our preparations?" Sherlock said in a dismissive manner, and was rewarded with another missile to the arse.

"Jack, you kill zombies by shooting them in their head, not their arse!"

"I can't reach your head, Daddy, but your bum is much closer! And don't say 'arse'. It's a bad word."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Sorry, Jack, I wouldn't want to offend your delicate sensibilities. But if you hit my hindquarters one more time, you will definitely be dealing with some damage to your own bum!"

"Mommy, is 'hindquarters' a bad word."

"No, love, it's just another, bigger word for bum."

"Then Daddy's showing off again, right?"

"Right you are, mate!" Uncle John picked the child up and swung him around. "We all know your Daddy's a showoff!" The boy giggled as he flew through the air.

"John, put the little monster down before his weapon goes off accidentally, and I am once again battered." Sherlock barely got out the words before he let out a yelp, and looked down to see a tiny vampire bite into his leg. He ran his hand through her light brown curls, and laughingly called to his wife, "Woman, control your spawn!" He then ended with a piratey, "Aargh!"

Children and neighbors had begun to arrive, and the small backyard was soon filled to capacity. Some older kids were toasting marshmallows at the fire pit, as the younger ones munched on cookies and other treats. Most of the "monsters" seemed far too friendly to actually frighten the children, except some of the very young ones, and even they were soon comforted by a special treat handed to them by a murdered nanny, of a smiling vampire. Only the solitary pirate with the bloody cutlass and the rotting flesh gave them a moment's pause. But even he didn't seen so terrifying once they witnessed him being put in his place by a small zombie hunter with a crossbow and exceptional aim.

Later that Halloween night, Sherlock and Molly Holmes were snug in their bed. Sherlock was sleeping soundly, but Molly had been awakened by a slight noise in the bedroom. It was only a small sound, and she knew it was probably nothing. And she also knew that if she opened her eyes, she would have a hard time getting back to sleep. But the slight sound came again, from just across the room in the vicinity of her bureau. She opened her eyes, and peered into the darkness, only to see a ghostly cat form sitting atop the bureau, rubbing its whiskers against the small box containing Toby's ashes. _ I'm dreaming,_ she thought, and closed her eyes. But the sound came again, so she once again looked in the direction of the apparition. The cat stopped its rubbing, looked directly at her, and meowed!

"Sherlock," she whispered, nudging her sleeping husband.

"Mmmph," was the reply.

"Are you awake?"

"NO!"

Another nudge, this time a bit harder. "I think I'm seeing Toby's ghost, Sherlock!"

"No such thing," he muttered.

"As ghosts?"

"No. Toby. Dead. No Toby." came his disjointed answer.

Molly turned away from her vision to shake her husband into a state of full wakefulness, but by the time he had roused himself, and they turned their attention to the bureau, and the wooden box containing Toby's ashes, the ghostly vision had vanished.

"I swear, Sherlock! It was there. A cat. A luminous cat. Ghostly!"

"There are no such things as ghosts, Molly! You must have been dreaming. No cat. No ghost. Go back to sleep." Sherlock kissed his wife on the forehead, and smiled fondly, perhaps laughing a bit. He wrapped his arms around her, and she could swear he was giggling just a little as she drifted off.

The couple were awakened a short time later by a crash, a thump, a howl, and a toddler crying, in that order. Molly immediately sat upright in bed, preparing to run upstairs to check on her children, when they noticed that the crying was becoming closer and closer, and had now disintegrated into the occasional sniff. Sherlock turned on the bedside lamp just as little Maggie opened their door and entered, carrying a bundle of white fur, none too gently, in her arms.

"Jack shot him with his crossbow. He thought he was a zombie! But he's not a zombie, he's a ghost." Maggie explained to her parents.

"She thinks he's Toby," Jack said, flopping on the bed next to his father. "I told her there is no such thing as ghosts. Right Daddy?"

"There are no such things as zombies either, Jack," Sherlock told the boy, who was still clutching his zombie killing crossbow. But the child looked dubious.

"I wasn't trying to kill him anyway. I didn't aim for his head, just his arse…"

"Jack!..." Molly interjected.

"Okay, his hindquarters!" the boy said with a smirk.

Molly now was holding the white cat on her lap, petting it affectionately, already attached. "Sherlock, explain yourself!"

But instead of speaking, the detective reached over once again to the lamp, and flicked it off. The cat shone in the dark a lovely luminescence.

"Ghost!" Maggie squealed with delight, and the cat took off out of the darkened room.

"Remember Baskerville? Did I ever mention 'Bluebell', the glow in the dark bunny? An experiment in bio-luminescence. Not the only experimental animal, evidently. Mycroft has connections, you know. You wanted a cat. But who wants an ordinary cat, when they can have an extraordinary one?"

"I suppose we should go find our extraordinary cat, but first, let's get these Halloween monsters back to bed!" Molly said, as she scooped up Maggie in her arms. Sherlock lifted Jack onto his shoulders, and they headed upstairs.

Suddenly the now quiet night was pierced by a blood-curdling shriek from downstairs. "Well, I guess we know to where our new cat disappeared!"

"Poor Mrs. Hudson, she certainly puts up with a lot living in the same building as the Holmes family. I suppose she'll need an extra dose of her herbal soothers tonight." Molly laughed.

"Perhaps we should ask her for a few for Anthea. I have a feeling she's not going to be too accepting of Si's new glowing tarantula." As Sherlock spoke, Molly thanked the powers that be once again that she married the right Holmes brother. "Cheer up, love. It could have been worse. The glowing snake ate the luminous iguana, or she could have been dealing with a whole menagerie!"

Then he turned his son over to his wife, and went in search of the newest addition to the family.


End file.
